


Better Than A Song

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Sansa Arryn takes advantage of Lord Arryn's absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than A Song

“Harry is leaving for a hunting trip tomorrow. I trust you will find a reason not to accompany him?”

Lady Arryn’s sworn shield bowed to her. “Of course. Someone must stay to make sure no dragons come and swoop away his lordship’s lovely wife.”

Sansa smiled. She wanted to touch the burned side of his face and gently mock him about being the wrong man to fight dragons but they were not alone and it would not do to be too familiar with him in front of the servants. Her husband’s departure could not come soon enough. They had stolen a few minutes in a disused guest room several days ago but that only made her want Sandor more. 

“I expect I shall be feeling unwell tomorrow evening. I won’t be able to attend dinner in the Great Hall. Will my devoted shield check on me?”

“And miss dinner? Are you mad, woman?” When he smiled it drew one’s attention to the fact that his lips on one side of his mouth had burned away. Sansa had long stopped noticing it. She turned away before she could give in to the need to touch him. 

The following night Sansa dismissed all but her most trusted maid. She had not forgotten Petyr Baelish’s lessons and she did not trust Gretchel so much as she trusted the woman’s gratitude for having sent her son to serve as a page at Riverrun. It was an exorbitant gift to a mere serving woman, but it was well worth the woman’s discretion. For a sick woman Sansa was feeling quite hungry and Gretchel fetched her a meal big enough for two before she retired to the small cell that adjoined her ladyship’s bed chamber. 

“I’ve missed you so,” Sansa said when Sandor came to her. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his chest. She always felt better when he was with her, even back during that awful time at Joffrey’s court. 

“I could kill him,” he said, for the hundredth time. She knew he hated having to share her with Lord Arryn as much as she hated not being able to touch him whenever she wanted to.

“And his widow would have to go home and eventually be wed to some other lord,” replied Sansa. “Harry is reckless; I don’t doubt he’ll get himself killed after he’s gotten an heir.” She raised her head and looked up at him. “I don’t want to talk about him. I want to pretend he does not exist tonight.”

And Harry did cease to exist when Sandor kissed her. He picked her up around the waist and carried her the short distance to the bed, ignoring her concerns for his leg. The wound was old but it had never healed properly. Harry had not understood why Sansa wanted a bodyguard who was almost lame but Sansa would not have anyone else and she did not want to rely solely upon the garrison for protection, not after what had happened to her parents and brother, she’d told her husband with tears shimmering in her eyes. 

Sansa threw her arms around Sandor’s neck, the better to feel his chest pressed against her breasts, and kissed him with a fervor that would have shocked her husband. Sandor could be very tender at times, but this was not one of them. His mouth was as harsh on hers as it had been on their first kiss in King’s Landing. Sansa did not mind because it was _Sandor_ ; it did not matter to her how rough or gentle he was, it only mattered that he touched her. “My love,” she whispered, her fingers combing through his hair as his lips left hers to seek her neck. 

He bit her. Sansa gasped. Usually he did not begin to bite so soon. He licked at the injured spot, lulling her with the soothing sensation before he bit her harder a second time. The pain of that was nothing compared to the pang of need that shot through her body. Sansa shoved at his shoulders and he let her push him away. She pulled her silken shift over her head and tossed it away, smirking at him in satisfaction for having denied him the chance to rip it off her body. The man took a perverse pleasure in tearing her fine clothes. He laughed now and it was the best sound in the world to Sansa. She loved his voice, even when he was laughing at her. He was the one person in the world who could laugh at her without hurting her feelings. He reached for her again and Sansa slid away. “Undress. I want to touch you,” she told him.

Sandor Clegane watched her as he removed his swordbelt, cloak, and boots. But his eyes shifted away as he took off his tunic and breeches; they always did, as though he feared she would be repulsed by his naked body. Nothing could be farther from the truth. His skin was covered in scars; that was true, but he was as tall and strong as any hero who ever lived. Sansa had never seen a man so well-muscled who wasn’t a blacksmith. When he returned to the bed, she nudged him unto his back and commenced kissing his scars. She started with the rough patches of darkened skin on the side of his throat where his evil brother had held him down in a brazier long ago. She worked as though her tongue could erase the damaged skin and heal his hurt, batting his hands away when he tried to interrupt her. There was a thin line on his upper arm where he’d been cut while saving her from the mob, and so many scars on his chest and stomach that they overlapped and made it difficult to count how many there were. And then there was the one on his thigh, the one that had made him nearly a cripple. That one made Sansa the saddest. The burns gave him nightmares and had made him angry at the world, but this scar marked the end of his career as a fighter. She remembered watching him at the Hand’s Tourney and later as the mob swarmed and howled around them. She looked at his face then. “My true knight,” she whispered. 

He would have protested and voiced his scorn for knights, but when he opened his mouth, he could only moan. Sansa had grasped his manhood in one hand and daintily set to licking it. The first time she had tried to touch him like this, he hadn’t let her. He’d insisted that a lady should not even think of such a thing, much less do it. But she could see for herself that he liked it and he refused to answer her when she inquired whether women who were not ladies did such things. She had never made him spill his seed by that manner and she thought she might tonight. She felt his hand in her hair and she took the head of his manhood into her mouth before he could yank her away. The taste was not pleasant but that was a small sacrifice for making her beloved insensible with pleasure. 

“Stop. I want to fuck you.”

Sansa gave him a reproachful look. He had promised to mind his language. She wouldn’t have stopped, but well, she did want to be _fucked_. It made her blush to think of that word in relation to herself, and she hoped the candlelight was too dim for Sandor to notice. He might kill himself laughing if he caught her blushing under such circumstances. She released him and sat up. He was on her in an instant, his mouth latching onto a nipple and his hand sliding between her legs. Sansa had learned to tell the difference between Sandor’s pleasure in toying with her body and him trying to make her wet as quickly as possible. This was one of the latter times. “Just do it,” she said. And he did. 

It hurt almost and somehow that made it feel even better. There would be bruises later where his hands griped her thighs. Sansa liked these types of bruises. Harry did not bother to hide his whores from her so it pleased her to flaunt another man’s marks in front of him. Her husband never realized he had not been the maker of those bruises. Sandor drove deeper into her and Sansa cried out, all thought of Harry or anyone else forgotten. He leaned forward to kiss her and Sansa pulled him onto her, wanting to feel more of his weight. _This_ was what she liked best, to be beneath Sandor, with him buried inside her and his kiss on her tongue; to be completely possessed by her Hound. She never doubted that he was hers, and she wanted him to know she was his. She struggled to keep her eyes open and when Sandor’s eyes closed, she touched his face to make him look at her. He broke the kiss and rested his burnt cheek against her smooth one. She meant to tell him she loved him, but the height of her pleasure was upon her and she could not speak. 

“Little bird,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, then, “Sansa.”

Later, when he tried to leave her bed, Sansa clung to him. “Stay with me. Sleep here.”

Sandor looked at her questioningly. She was usually the one reminding him to be discreet. 

“Be my lord husband tonight,” she said. 

He pinched her arse. “I’ve told you, I’m no lord.” But he stayed. 

Sansa nibbled on a sweetmeat while she watched him eat the food she’d had her maid bring earlier. She would kill her husband herself if she thought she could have Sandor like this every night for the rest of their lives and she knew Sandor would battle a dragon for her, but none of it would do them any good. Life was not a song.


End file.
